


we're strong enough for this and i need you, it's okay that you need me too

by imadetheline



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Panic Attacks, Poison, Pre-Slash, they comfort each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadetheline/pseuds/imadetheline
Summary: He forces himself to slow down even though his brain is yelling to reach Geralt now. He steps more carefully and breathes in a steady pattern, trying to slow the creeping panic in his system. Why did he leave him? What if the poison surged again and he wasn’t there to bring down the fever? What if bandits attacked? What if there are more archespores? His brain is running in overdrive. He knows, logically, that Geralt’s healing has probably already brought his fever down a little by now, and bandits are unlikely this far from the road. But, he’s also experienced with these bouts of panic and knows they’re anything but logical.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 67





	we're strong enough for this and i need you, it's okay that you need me too

**Author's Note:**

> title from superman by rachel platten
> 
> just had the urge to write a short drabble for these two. Hope you like it!

The scant light of the moon that reaches through the thick canopy of black trees does little to illuminate the fight in front of him as Jaskier crouches behind a large and, to his dismay, very sharp bush. The fire Geralt is currently hurling at the large plant does, however, do the trick of lighting up the forest in bursts of orange and red.

Jaskier ducks as one particularly close ball of flame lights up the darkness, feeling sparks hit his face. Maybe he should have listened to Geralt when he’d told him to stay farther back. But he can never resist. Besides, he’s not going to leave Geralt out fighting a monster alone, even though he doesn’t contribute to the fight much, at least he’s here to patch up his witcher should he get injured.

The light from the flames is enough for him to catch flashing glances of the fight and the horribly large archespore, as Geralt had called it. Jaskier had just thought it would be a normal-sized plant, but now seeing flashes of its large, lunging leaves and teeth, he knows he underestimated it. At least it will make for a captivating song.

Geralt had said the monsters grew in blood-soaked ground. Jaskier shuddered to think what had occurred beneath his feet to grow one of this size. Geralt had also said it could shoot venom, which was why Jaskier had agreed, more readily than normal, to stay hidden in the treeline a ways back.

He hears Geralt curse and quickly peers over the edge of the bush. Golden flames are licking their way up one of the trees behind Geralt and a hissing sphere on the ground, but then that’s going up in flames too, and there’s no sign of any more danger, the archspore’s head hanging from Geralt’s fist. Jaskier stands, brushing dirt off his pants and plucking a particularly clingy thorn from his arm. He steps out from behind the bush towards Geralt but freezes at the witcher’s sharp “Don’t move!”

He’s learned to mostly listen to Geralt when they’re within 50 yards of anything that could be considered a monster, so he stops moving, his eyes flicking over the dark trees and Geralt’s shadowed form, flickering in the light of the fire. He can’t see anything, but he’s not a witcher, so he waits and desperately tries to make out any moving shadows.

Geralt is deadly still, and Jaskier tries not to breathe. His feet are starting to go numb when Geralt suddenly moves, swinging his sword over his back into its scabbard. Jaskier jumps at the sudden movement but quickly clears his throat and smooths down his doublet, trying to cover his less than dignified start.

Geralt stalks towards him, “I think I burned out all the pods. They would have exploded by now,” comes his gruff voice, even though Jaskier can’t make out his mouth moving in the darkness.

The witcher stalks right past him, the head still swinging from his grip, and Jaskier scowls, scrambling after him, “Exploding plant pods? You could have told me that before telling me to wait surrounded by shrubbery.”

Geralt doesn’t slow, “You were fine.”

Jaskier swings an accusing finger at him, “Yes, but I might not have been.” 

“Hmm.”

Jaskier smiles and doesn’t push it. He wasn’t actually all that worried for his safety. He never really is, not with Geralt. 

It’s still too dark for his human eyes, so as he walks beside Geralt, his foot hits something round, and he yelps, almost sprawling into the underbrush before his hand catches on Geralt’s upper arm, saving him from a rough fall. Geralt hisses, and his muscles tense under Jaskier’s fingers. Jaskier quickly pulls away and opens his mouth to apologize for touching Geralt when his brain finally whirs back to life and recognizes the sticky substance now coating his hand. He still can’t see his hand, but he’s patched Geralt up enough to know it’s blood. “Geralt, when were you going to tell me you’re injured?” he hisses, anxious anger filling his chest. He’s already running through the meager medical supplies they have. The town is too far away to be useful tonight. They’ve already set up camp at the outskirts of the forest.

Geralt’s already started walking again, avoiding Jaskier’s question, and the bard scrambles to catch up to him. “We’re taking care of that when we get back to our supplies.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer.

<<<>>>

“Geralt, you need to rest.” Jaskier pushes lightly at Geralt’s chest forcing him back down on the mat. He knows it only works because Geralt is still weak from the archespore’s poison, which he’d had to force the witcher to even tell him about, but he likes to think Geralt also obliges because he trusts Jaskier to watch out for him. It’s a wishful thought, he knows, but it’s all he has. 

Geralt grunts and licks at his chapped lips, and Jaskier immediately turns and rummages through his pack for a waterskin, handing it off to the injured witcher, and watches as he takes a huge gulp, the fire next to them crackling merrily.

Jaskier glances to the darkening sky. The town that has commissioned them is over a day’s journey away. That’s why they’d set up camp here earlier, deciding to let Geralt rest, no matter the fight, before trying to find better lodging. Well, it was mostly Jaskier who’d decided that, with Geralt insisting he would be fine. Jaskier is glad he’d put his foot down when Geralt almost collapses upon their return to the small camp.

Geralt’s out of danger now, his arm bandaged and salve applied. The poison won’t kill him, but it has to run its course, so now all that’s left is to wait. It shouldn’t be long with Geralt’s healing, but it leaves a pit of worry in Jaskier’s stomach all the same. 

Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s forehead and winces at the warmth radiating against his palm. Geralt grunts and turns his head away. Jaskier sighs and sits back on his heels, reaching for the waterskin hanging limply from Geralt’s fingers. It’s mostly empty.

He looks out into the darkening forest. They have enough firewood, so that’s not an issue, but they used more water than he’d predicted. He’ll have to refill the waterskins at the small river in the forest, but he shivers at the thought of trekking half a mile into the trees. 

He almost jumps when Geralt’s hand brushes his wrist, almost too light to be felt, but Jaskier’s heart stutters in his chest, and he turns back to his witcher, helpless to stop the fond smile on his lips. Thankfully, Geralt’s eyes are closed, so Jaskier’s smile remains secret.

The quiet moment is broken by a dry, hacking cough falling from Geralt’s lips. Jaskier reaches for him again, brushing a stray strand of hair back from his too-hot face. Geralt’s features seem to calm at his touch, and he relaxes a little, still stuck in the thralls of sleep. Jaskier steels his courage at the evidence of Geralt’s sickness and whispers, “Stay here,” before stepping out of the circle of light cast from the fire, waterskins in hand.

Jaskier hurries through the trees, the firelight fading away behind him. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt alone for long in that state. He also doesn’t want to be in these woods by himself. The trees are bent and gnarled and seem almost to be reaching for him as he stumbles underneath them. The sounds of the forest are loud in his ears, the snap of twigs under his foot, the rustling of the wind in the leaves, the chirping of bugs. He much prefers it to the unnatural silence that accompanies areas occupied by the monsters Geralt hunts. And the air is crisp in his lungs, so it’s not all bad, but the worry in his stomach doesn’t fade as long as he’s away from Geralt.

The stream is at the bottom of a small but steep hill, covered in dry leaves. He clambers down quickly, one hand wrapped tightly around the empty waterskins and the other bracing himself on the ground. His hand comes away scratched, but he ignores it in favor of dipping the waterskins in the freezing water. He shivers and glances around, the stream burbling along in front of him as the waterskins fill. It’s almost too dark to make out the opposite side of the shallow stream, a fact that has him hurrying to cap the now full skins and climb back up the incline.

He speeds up on the way back but is keenly aware that his trek is slower, probably because of the carelessness that comes with speed. He can barely see, and without Geralt’s advanced senses and reflexes, he keeps tripping over roots, landing on the ground a few times or catching himself on the rough bark of dark trees, tearing up the skin on his free hand.

He forces himself to slow down even though his brain is yelling to reach Geralt now. He steps more carefully and breathes in a steady pattern, trying to slow the creeping panic in his system. Why did he leave him? What if the poison surged again and he wasn’t there to bring down the fever? What if bandits attacked? What if there are more archespores? His brain is running in overdrive. He knows, logically, that Geralt’s healing has probably already brought his fever down a little by now, and bandits are unlikely this far from the road. But, he’s also experienced with these bouts of panic and knows they’re anything but logical.

Finally, he can’t take it any longer, and he speeds up, almost running, catching himself on trees when he stumbles. He feels his hand hit a particularly ragged piece of bark and feels blood drip down his wrist, but he ignores it, catching sight of the light of the fire filtering through the trees. His breath is coming in gasps when he finally catches sight of Geralt, sitting up, and steps into the circle of light.

The full waterskins tumble from his hands next to their bags, and he drops to his knees beside Geralt, “You shouldn’t be sitting up. How are you feeling?” His words come out rushed between unsteady breaths. Geralt is in front of him, looking well enough, he tries to tell his brain, but he’s already in the midst of panic, and nothing will stop it now. He tries desperately to get his breathing under control and to hide the panic making his hands tremble.

Geralt huffs out a “Better,” but then his nostrils flare, and he cocks his head, golden eyes narrowing and tracing over Jaskier. “You’re hurt.”

It’s not a question, but Jaskier tries to deny it anyway, “No, I- It’s just a scratch, really. I got more water, though. You need it, and it’ll help with your fever.” His brain is still short-circuiting, so without thinking, he lifts his bloodied hand to Geralt’s forehead to check his fever. His hand is stopped halfway to Geralt’s face, the witcher’s fingers wrapped lightly but forcefully around Jaskier’s wrist.

Geralt lowers Jaskier’s hand and growls at the blood and numerous scratches, the largest and deepest stretching the length of his palm. “Jaskier, what did you do?”

Jaskier’s brain, already in mid-panic, is now short-circuiting for an entirely different reason. Geralt’s fingers are gentle as he turns Jaskier’s hand over, searching for more cuts. It takes him a moment to find words as he watches Geralt’s downturned face, “Umm, it’s nothing. I’ll just bandage it real quick. But you should really lay down. I-” He stops abruptly as Geralt reaches past him, towards their bag, pulling out what’s left of their medical supplies and the waterskins. “What are you doing?” His confusion momentarily trumps the anxiety still building in his veins.

“What does it look like, bard?” comes Geralt’s gruff voice as he pulls out bandages and salve. Jaskier wants to laugh, but he feels it might become hysterical and then dissolve into tears. So he doesn’t. 

The water is cold as Geralt dumps some on his hand, washing away the blood. He tries to flinch away, but Geralt’s firm fingers catch him, gentle but steady as he washes away the dirt and blood. “I can do this. You’re still recovering. You should rest.” Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier doesn’t pull his hand away, so Geralt continues with his ministrations. Jaskier’s not entirely sure what’s happening. Why is Geralt doing this? He knows Geralt won’t let him die, but this is hardly life-threatening. He wants to consider it more, but this time confusion isn’t enough to hold back the panic he’s been quelling.

His breaths, which had yet to return to normal, are swiftly becoming even more unsteady. He blinks and tries to clear the dancing black spots from his vision. His limbs feel like lead. 

“Jaskier,” he hears the rough timbre of Geralt’s voice, “Breathe.” He’s about to tell him he’s trying, but then he feels more than sees Geralt’s hand around his uninjured hand, guiding it until it’s resting over Geralt’s chest. Without the armor, which is set to the side, Jaskier can feel the steady inhale and exhale through Geralt’s thin undershirt. His brain takes another moment to understand, but then he slowly matches his breathing to Geralt’s.

The black spots start to fade from his vision, but the panic is still coursing through him. Geralt seems to notice, even as he starts wrapping a bandage around Jaskier’s injured hand. “Breathe, Jaskier. What can you see?”

He makes sure his breathing is still matched to Geralt’s, and then his eyes focus first on his hand against Geralt’s chest and then on Geralt’s fingers on his hand, the bandages, the grass, the waterskins. He says this out loud, his brain starting to calm, not enough for him to think of filtering his words, though. Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, “Good. What do you feel?”

His breathing is steady without him thinking about it now, and his limbs don’t feel frozen. His hand drops from Geralt’s chest as he thinks of the warmth of Geralt’s skin, the cool breeze, the fire crackling at his back. But mostly, he just feels safe, warm in his chest, and… You, he wants to whisper, I feel you. 

His brain has come back on, though, so he doesn’t say any of that. He just looks down at his fully bandaged hand, trying to process it. Geralt’s fingers are still wrapped around his hand, so that makes processing anything a bit hard. He meets Geralt’s eyes and sees only warmth. “Why were you worried, Jaskier?” It’s quiet and low, almost covered by the whispering of the wind. Quiet enough that he knows Geralt is saying he can ignore the question, and they can go back to the way things were and never mention it again. He knows it, just like he knows that this is Geralt reaching out. 

His answer is quiet in return, but he knows Geralt can hear it, “I was worried… about you.” He looks down at both of Geralt’s large hands wrapped around his one, almost engulfing it. He doesn’t wait for a response before he asks a question of his own, “Why did you fix me up?”

The fire sputters behind them in the wind and silence. And then, in an echo of Jaskier’s own words, Geralt replies, “I was… worried about you.” 

Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest, even when Geralt’s hands fall away from his, and they both lay down on their sleeping rolls for a few hours rest, Geralt’s back to him as the fire slowly fizzles out. Geralt cares, and that’s enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys liked it leave a comment. They make my day! Seriously I love reading them so please leave me one cause they motivate me to write more! if you guys have ideas for other one-shots send me an ask on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/imadetheline) or just yell about stuff with me. Info about me and all my other tumblrs are [here](https://infoabtmaddie.carrd.co/#)


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